A/N – Saigo/Katsumoto speaks of hitokiri Battousai, the night before his last battle. An exploratory crossover with the Last Samurai.

Disclaimer – I have no rights to either Ruroken or the Last Samurai. No profits were made in the writing of this. Don't sue.


Native Myths


"Tell me of this "Battousai," the American asks.

The cherry blossoms bloom in Katsumoto's garden, their ephemeral beauty an ache in his heart. They have already started to shed, splashes of colour vivid on the dark earth.

"The men will tell you he was a demon," Katsumoto murmurs. "They will say many things, out of fear, out of envy, even out of awe. You know how rumours and tales can grow into legend and myth," he says, looking at the American, the man of violence, the scholar. "I have seen it in your journals."

Algren nods, his dark eyes serious and intelligent.

"Battousai was a phenomenal swordsman, it is true. But when he first pledged his sword to the Revolution, he was no more than a young, naïve boy. It was Katsura who made him into a nightmare, a shadow, to strike fear into the hearts of our enemies."

Katsumoto pauses a moment to remember Himura Kenshin, standing at Katsura's shoulder with his terrifying, almost fanatical golden gaze. Choshu's shadow assassin. Katsura's Battousai.

"Will they send him against us?" The American puts his hand to his sword, an automatic gesture; he has the heart of a samurai, this one, but holding Ujio to a draw with bokken is nothing, nothing, to what he would face against Battousai.

Katsumoto smiles grimly. They said that Battousai had walked away after Toba Fushimi, his part in the Revolution played. But no leader would willingly have surrendered such a weapon. Especially not one as canny and ruthless as Katsura.

These scattered reports of the rurouni, the wandering swordsman upholding the peace and stability of the Meiji regime, were entirely too convenient.

"They would be fools if they do not."